


A Lily and a Gun Barrel

by ninemoons42



Category: James Bond (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Book/Movie Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Banter, Casual Danger Dialogue, Crossover, Guns, Introspection, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, Snark, Spies & Secret Agents, Suit Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 01:40:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When an SIS agent dies under sudden and mysterious circumstances in Barcelona, M sends in the big guns, namely, someone who knows something about an unusual white-and-red rose, a modified sniper rifle, <i>and</i> a very nasty poison. Q is tasked to head the investigation, and Agent 008 comes in to consult - and the Mediterranean air of Antoni Gaudí's city becomes fraught with danger and tension and a pact of mutual snarking.</p><p>[Or: an XMFC/Skyfall fusion in which Charles Xavier is Q and Erik Lehnsherr is a double-0 agent!]</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lily and a Gun Barrel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaydeefalls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaydeefalls/gifts).



> Written for [Secret Mutant](http://secret-mutant.livejournal.com), as a gift for [kaydeefalls](http://kaydeefalls.livejournal.com). Prompt used: Fusion!AU, writer's choice.

title: A Lily and a Gun Barrel  
word count: approx. 11500  
fandoms: X-Men: First Class [movieverse], Skyfall [James Bond]  
characters: M [a/k/a Margaret "Peggy" Carter], Moira MacTaggert, Raven Darkholme, Charles Xavier, Emma Frost, Erik Lehnsherr. Some original characters are included as part of the plot.  
pairing: Charles Xavier/Erik Lehnsherr  
rating: NC-17  
warnings: big guns, on-screen death, glimpses into the psychology of a double-0 agent working for SIS, fantasy!Barcelona

 

Out through the doors, out of the hotel lobby, out onto the cobblestoned sidewalk: he takes a deep breath of the Barcelona breeze, takes in the scents of smoke and salt, and he almost doesn’t want to exhale because of the warmth prickling pleasantly underneath his skin. The scents of cinnamon and orange and sugar linger in the air, as does a plaintive song in Catalan. The small group of middle-aged Frenchwomen standing nearby gathers around someone with a map and a red-and-yellow sash. Everyone is talking at the tops of their voices. 

There are so many languages here – a dizzying whirl of chatter and rhythm – it reminds him of all the conversations he used to have with her, in every language they could share and then some. It reminds him of complicated puns and silly punch lines, and it reminds him of the high hot flush that always seemed to come into her cheeks when she laughed. 

So many good memories, and they still make him smile even though it’s been five years since they broke off with tearful smiles and warm hugs. 

He puts his sunglasses on and looks out at the Mediterranean Sea and its ever-shifting blues, and he allows himself a wistful smile – but the moment is interrupted when his smartphone beeps softly at him. 

The message is brief, and startling, and a gift, considering the past few minutes: _I’m thinking of you – love, Y._

It makes him smile; his fingers fly over the screen as he taps out his reply – _Was just thinking of you, too. We’ll always have Barcelona, yes?_

Just after he hits _Send_ there’s a brief sting of sharp sensation in the back of his neck, and it makes him think of tropical pests and of equatorial temperatures. It makes him think of the last time they’d run into each other: the two of them eating ice cream in sight of another waterfront halfway across the planet, and he’s still trying to remember whether that was Jakarta or Manila or some other place – but the world is falling silent. 

It feels like he’s being pulled down and away, and he is still thinking of her hair, long and lush and shining in sunlight whether it was bleached blonde or restored to red; he never hears the screams, and he never hears himself saying her name.

He breathes once more, and this time Barcelona smells like dust and dried blood and broken bones, and then there is a deep dark nothing.

///

There’s a longish queue to get out of the greenhouse pavilion and everyone in it seems to be both very polite and very much in a hurry, and Charles Xavier isn’t really surprised.

Lilies are beauty and stress and waiting – and they come in all forms and all fragrances, and after a while they all start running together. They start to get confusing, and they start to get disorientating – colors bleeding one into the other, a jumble of cultivar names, too many strong scents. It’s not the plant’s fault, nor the flowers’.

Still, Charles feels a vague sense of wanting to apologize as he finally steps out into the late afternoon sunlight, as he takes a deep breath of the Barcelona air. Air that is definitely not spicy or sweet or cloying, that smells clean and bright instead, like seawater and distant rain.

Someone sneezes right behind Charles and he murmurs “Gesundheit,” and doesn’t wait for an answer before he pulls absently at the cuffs of his rumpled light-green shirt and at the lapels of his favorite maroon cardigan before strolling back in the direction of his hotel.

His thoughts drift back to the small patch of garden he’s managed to create back at his London flat, carefully covered with an inch of mulch; after seeing today’s exhibits, he thinks he might be able to come up with a viable orange-petaled cultivar for his current _L. longiflorum_ var. _eximium_.

Just before he turns the corner that will lead him back to the beach and his hotel, however, he’s interrupted by his mobile phone – and he’s on _holiday_ , he thinks, growling under his breath and to hell with the tourists looking at him. 

He remembers telling off just about the entirety of Q Branch the evening before his flight, and both Raven and Sean twice _each_ – so what exactly is going on now? For a moment he thinks about all the other double-0 agents and particularly about 007, still on assignment somewhere in Peru the last time he bothered to check his computer. He knows that Bond hasn’t been issued anything from the racks for that particular task because the package was already waiting for him at the drop point, though judging from the tone of the last update, Charles will have to consider getting the backup box ready to go. Bond goes through guns at an appalling rate – never mind cars or _bullets_ , a wastrel of an agent even with that licence of his to consider. But Raven has reassured him that she knows what to do if an emergency situation should come up while he’s gone, so what reason could there be for them to call him? 

Charles ducks into a blind alley, presses a button on the scrambler that he carries in his pocket at all times, and all but snarls when he picks up: “Quarter. And there had better be a bloody good _reason_ for this or I swear. No tea for a week, I’ll cut all of you off, I mean it – ”

“I would appreciate it, Quartermaster, if you very kindly did not carry out that threat,” his caller says, cool and competent and still a little hoarse from recent events. “I am not particularly sure what I would do if I were deprived of tea for a few days.” 

“Mum,” Charles says, and he is suddenly very, _very_ glad that he can sag back against the weathered brick wall because _yes_ she has access to him at all times but _no_ she never personally calls him. All of the very official, very highest-echelon business he has to do goes through MacTaggert because that is what they do, because it’s easier on everyone’s nerves that way, because she can at least understand Q Branch’s lingo even if she cannot always speak it. “I – I’m sorry, please excuse me, I thought that it was Raven calling or someone else from my section....”

M sighs and seems to take pity on him, because when she interrupts him she is both firm and kind. “I am calling you unexpectedly, Quartermaster, because I have myself received an unexpected call. As I already know that you are on the scene in Barcelona, I am passing this information on to you.” 

“On the scene?” Charles peers warily around the section of the neighborhood that he can see. 

And then he clocks her words and he covers his face and stifles a groan. “Oh this isn’t anything good, is it, Mum?”

“Worse than nothing good,” M says. “I’m sorry, Quartermaster, but your holiday is over. You’re now the senior agent in charge of this case, for more reasons than I can disclose to you even over a secure line such as this.”

He’s not offended. He gimmicked up these phones himself, and he knows every single person who could have access to any information transmitted over these lines – he knows where they live and he knows how to _hurt_ them. Still, operational security is operational security, and there’s nothing else he can say or do. “You’ve got me, Mum. Just tell me where to go, and I’ll take it from there.”

Maybe he’s just hearing things, because M does not ever sound relieved, or sad, as she does now. “I’m informed you’re in the vicinity of La Barceloneta beach; run until you see some familiar faces.”

“I – _shit_ – excuse me, Mum,” Charles fumbles, because if he thought he was afraid earlier, it’s nothing compared to his reaction to that sentence.

“Swear all you wish, Quartermaster, that rather seems to be the rational response to a situation such as this – but kindly do that later, or perhaps while you are underway, because you were asked for ten minutes ago, and there is only so much Miss Frost can do with the local bureaucracy....”

“Going now,” he says, and hangs up even as she’s wishing him luck. He thinks about making amends for a moment – and then the adrenaline rush takes over and he takes off at his fastest sprint, with which he has been known to leave even field agents in the dust.

He weaves and dodges past what feels like every gawker, tourist, and sunbather on the stretch of sand between him and his goal: a woman in a white suit that almost matches both the bright spring sunshine and her gleaming blonde braid, which ends in the small of her back.

Charles squeezes in between a man in a paramedic’s uniform and a woman carrying both a small video camera and a sawed-off shotgun; as he passes the woman he catches her expression as it shifts from surprise to respect and she murmurs, _“Jefe,”_ which creates a stir in the rest of the circle.

“I had thought that I’d have to wait at least a day for any assistance,” Emma Frost says quietly but clearly as she pulls her braid forward over her left shoulder. “Imagine my surprise when I was told to expect you nearly immediately, Mister...Quentin.”

Charles gives her a tight smile to acknowledge the alias, and shakes her offered hand. “I wish I could say that it’s a pleasure to see you again – but this isn’t precisely the best of circumstances, I’m told.”

“You could say that,” she deadpans, and gestures toward the center of the circle, which is still hidden from his sight by a pair of burly policemen. “After you – but you’d better take something for the smell.”

He makes a face and pulls out his handkerchief, clamping it over his nose and mouth as he steps forward – but it’s not enough to stifle the small noise of dismay that he lets out as soon as he sees the body sprawled out on the cobblestones. There is a livid bruise on the back of his neck; otherwise the dead man seems uninjured. 

Charles’s eyes narrow and he gets to his knees for a closer look – and there, he spots the small dot of blood and the break in the skin that is no longer bleeding. “That’s not good,” he says. 

“Poison, right?” Frost asks.

“Yes,” Charles says. “Projectile weapon involved – my quickest guess would be something very high-powered.”

“That’s what I thought. I have people combing the rooftops.”

“Bring whatever they find to me,” he says. “I’m going to turn him over now.”

“Go,” Frost says – and then she gasps when she sees the man’s face. “Shit.”

Charles glances at her pale face and then at the dead man’s wide eyes. After a moment, he asks, “Is it safe for us to talk here?”

She nods, once.

“Then allow me to begin by offering my sympathies. Was he one of yours?”

Frost shakes her head. “Not from _my_ station. All I have is his name and his ID. Agent Lee, Jason. He reported to me on arrival, usual procedures, but he said that he was here on personal business. I had someone sit on him for a couple of days, and he seemed to be telling the truth. But it looks like he should never have come here.”

“Personal business – as if that made this work easier,” Charles says as he eyes the corpse uneasily. “Granted that I’m in no position to talk. I’m here on holiday myself after all.”

“Do I get to ask?”

Charles rolls his eyes and makes sure she can see the gesture. “You can ask, and I can answer, but you will have to be satisfied with what I say. No prying, please.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Now you know that’s just asking for it.”

“Is this really the time?” He gestures at the dead agent.

“Call it a distraction from weightier matters.”

“I thought Barcelona was one of those all on its own.” Charles sighs after a moment. “Fine. One of the few reasons I venture offshore nowadays. I am, or I suppose I should say I _was_ because now I’m doing this, attending the horticultural show. They’re featuring lilies this year, you see. I grow them at home. It’s a hobby.”

Frost looks genuinely surprised. “I hadn’t known.”

“It’s a secret,” he says, scratching the back of his head.

“Which is safe with me,” she says. “Though if you were planning to take anything home, I think this situation has just scotched that. I don’t know much about plants and flowers, but I do know you have to be careful with transporting them. Time is of the essence.”

“Good thing I wasn’t buying anything until tomorrow,” Charles says, and knows that he sounds resigned. “I guess I should be grateful to have saved the money.”

Frost shrugs one shoulder in an elegant movement.

A woman walks up to her and murmurs in her ear, and when that conversation is finished, she turns back to Charles and says, “We’ve found something. Shall we get out of this sun?”

Charles perks up, though only a little. “If that means I get to work in your office....”

He watches her try to fight off her smile. “Oh, of course you were only interested in architecture.”

“I’m in Barcelona, and you’re in one of its most famous spaces – why shouldn’t I be interested?”

///

Charles sticks his hands in his pockets and looks very carefully at the disassembled rifle sitting on top of the hastily cleared work table. A familiar configuration of parts, a telescopic sight with both kill-flash and polarizing filters, an empty magazine that’s been reconfigured to carry a specific set of bullets, and very little else. No fingerprints, but that was to be expected. More worryingly, there are no marks to indicate manufacturer or point of origin, and he’s been looking over these parts for the better part of the day now. 

“As if I didn’t have enough problems already,” Charles mutters, and bites his lip as he begins to pace. “Poison and a custom-made, likely hand-machined, sniper rifle: not exactly the stuff that dreams are made on.” He glances at the files on the smaller desk, stacked in an almost neat pile next to his laptop. He remembers his skin crawling as he recalled the type of poison that had killed Agent Lee; now, he shakes his head and mutters, “Batrachotoxin – ugh.” 

There’s a footstep in the hallway, and a quiet not-quite-chuckle. “I hear it’s just the thing to put in a cup of proper Assam. Adds just the right notes of – hmm, I don’t know, _mortality_. Sure, it might make you feel a little light-headed afterwards, but that’s what poisons do.”

Charles doesn’t even think; he just _moves_ , as quickly and as decisively as he’s always known how to. Despite his fatigue and the lateness of the hour, his hand is steady as he reaches for the mug sitting atop the files, pivots on his foot, and lets fly. He calculates every possible trajectory and every possible variable even as the mug (heavy white porcelain, stone-cold dregs in the bottom) flies toward the shadow lounging against the doorjamb.

It’s an extremely uncivilized thing to do, and he knows it, but there is something about agents with double-0 licences that always gets to him – and he might be new to his position but he’s met them all and every single one of them has given him reason to sigh and throw up his hands in despair. 

There’s a rapid intake of breath. 

Charles blinks and looks up.

The man in the doorway, tall and rangy in a navy-blue tropical-weight suit, might have one arm flung up to protect his face, but he also seems to have caught the mug in his free hand. It’s even right-side up, and nothing has been spilled.

Pity.

Charles rolls his eyes; it’s his favorite way of greeting double-0s, and the only one he uses for this particular agent. “Am I meant to be impressed, then, 008?” 

Erik Lehnsherr’s eyebrow twitches toward his hairline as he replies. “Only if it pleases you to do so, Quartermaster.”

“Some other time, perhaps. When it’s actually called for.” Charles takes a long, adroit step to the left, and doesn’t miss the twitch in the corner of 008’s eye. It’s one of the man’s preferred tactics for dealing with Q Branch in general, and Charles himself in particular. Luckily, Charles has been working with him for years, and has learned to dodge Lehnsherr’s repeated attempts to invade his personal space. 

“Ouch,” 008 says as he puts the mug back down next to the files, but he actually sounds amused – right until the moment that he catches sight of the rifle, at which point he drops the teasing demeanor. The lines on his face deepen into an all-out frown as he shucks his suit jacket – Charles takes a moment to appreciate the fine scarlet _chirimen_ lining, as well as the crisp pale gray shirt beneath – and approaches the work table. “This is what did Agent Lee in.” 

“Admittedly, it’s a very elegant strategy,” Charles says, switching smoothly back to his usual briskness. “Precision. Efficiency. A sniper rifle and a gel capsule and more than enough speed to make sure the poison is correctly delivered. I would use just the same technique myself if I thought there was any possible justification for it.”

“We are grateful for your forbearance, Quartermaster – _Xavier_.” 

“Oh stop it.” Charles looks the other man in the eye. “Are you here for this case?”

Lehnsherr nods. “I would have come here sooner, but matters in Coimbra were – _fraught_ , shall we say. Been driving like fury for the past six hours.”

Charles almost blinks. The day really has gotten away from him. “Please tell me you haven’t actually tracked any blood into this place. I wouldn’t let you into Q Branch looking like you’d been through the wars and back, and this particular location is most emphatically not a place that would benefit from such ill treatment.”

“I’m not 007, thank you,” Lehnsherr fires back. “I have nothing but the utmost respect for this place. I’m just as admiring of _La Pedrera_ as you are.”

“All right,” Charles says, and offers him a sunny, if brief smile. “Now that that’s out of the way, let’s talk about the matter at hand. Have you worked with Agent Lee before?”

He watches Lehnsherr drop unceremoniously into one of the room’s rickety-looking wooden chairs; it squeaks and groans under his weight. “Once. Mission in Singapore about three years ago; we were in the field for something like six weeks. Good man to have on your side; he had a knack for improvisation.”

“Did you notice anything unusual in his behavior?”

“Not at that time. But M had him checked out after an incident regarding his mail. Apparently he was sending blank postcards all over the world? Nothing came of it, but.”

Charles is about to open his mouth to say something about that when there’s a step in the hall, a knock on the jamb, and then Frost comes down into the basement. “Quartermaster,” she says, “Agent 008. M’s had Agent Lee’s dossier couriered here. And you’ll excuse me for overhearing part of your conversation.”

“If you’re going to comment about the mail, by all means let’s hear it,” Charles says.

“The investigation into Agent Lee had to do with the postcards that he was sending out on a fairly regular basis. One every month, at the very least. No two postcards were ever sent to the same address or addresses. The report says that he never sent any messages, and that it was part of a collectors’ group that he had joined, or something to that effect.”

“Any responses?” Lehnsherr asks.

Frost nods and looks grim, now. “Yes. A rose after every postcard. Sometimes there were delays, but there was always a rose to correspond with each postcard. And yes, before you ask, every delivery found its way to Agent Lee, wherever he happened to be in the world.” There’s a quick rustling of papers. “I also now know why you were called in, Quartermaster.”

It only takes half a second for Charles to understand. “There are rare roses involved.”

“This is the description from the file: _pale cream rose, yellow highlights. Petals tipped in dark crimson._ Those particular roses were delivered at irregular intervals, but always one of this type at least once a year, for the three or so years that he was sending out the postcards. Are you familiar with this?”

Charles grits his teeth and tries very hard to forget a chase through dark greenhouses, where every shadow was a threat. “Very,” he says at last, and if his voice sounds flinty and emotionless, so be it. “I think I know how to find the source or sources of those roses – last time I encountered them, there were at least two gardens involved. Let me get on the horn to Raven so she can forward the details directly to M. It’ll be good to have some leads. And Frost?”

“Yes?”

“Does that dossier contain a will? What arrangements are being made for Agent Lee’s funeral?”

She looks surprised as she goes through the file again. “How did you know there was a will?”

“Lucky guess,” Charles says, and knows that his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

He’s not surprised when Frost doesn’t look convinced as she reads: _“In case of death: scatter ashes at sea. No memorial service. All effects to be returned to SIS.”_

Charles is about to volunteer when: “Let me carry those instructions out,” Lehnsherr says. “I knew the man, however briefly, and I am here. It’ll be no problem.”

“We’ll see to the cremation, 008, and I will call you in when it’s time to do the rest,” Frost says, and when she leaves she looks at them both with respect in her eyes.

There is a long silence over the rifle, and then Charles says, “You are kind.”

“It’s no more than I myself would ask for, were I in his position. Besides,” and Lehnsherr gets to his feet and starts pacing. “I don’t intend to do the work alone. I – I realize that this will make me rather the cliché of someone who’s been doing this for far too long, but I really do have a bad feeling about this. And the sooner we carry out Agent Lee’s instructions, the sooner we can learn what the next step in this case will be.”

“Good to see you’re still thinking on your feet.” Charles looks at the mug, and remembers that it’s empty, and makes a face. He could really use something warm for his hands right now. His nervous energy tends to leave him cold. “Now, the next thing to find out is whether my hunch is right or not.”

“This hunch has something to do with those roses.”

“I have a feeling I’m going to be seeing them again,” Charles almost growls.

“You’re probably right,” Lehnsherr says. “Then how does this work? You’re coming with me? You’re watching my back?”

“Or something,” Charles says. He thinks, and then he looks the other man right in the eyes. “What’s in it for you? Why do this?”

“Like I said, it’s no more than is decent. Too many of us have been lost in the past few years.”

“Are we just talking about justice here? Or is it more personal?”

Lehnsherr’s smirk shows rather a lot of teeth, and reminds Charles of the look in Bond’s eyes after a kill. Of the look in _his_ own eyes when he’s got a gun in his hands. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

“Maybe I do.” Still, it’s not going to mean that he’s going to stop needling the man. “All right. Off with you for now, I suppose. I need to make some phone calls. If we’re to do just a little bit more than just carrying out a dead man’s final wishes, we’re going to need proper tools.”

“Get yourself a proper suit while you’re at it, won’t you, Quartermaster,” Lehnsherr says as he crosses to the door. “You’re going to a funeral. Dress for it.”

///

The next afternoon, Charles tucks his scrambler and his smartphone into the pockets of his suit, and just before he steps out of his hotel room he examines himself critically in the mirror. Perhaps he will never be as perfectly put together as Lehnsherr, because the points of his collar will not lie straight no matter how much he smoothes them down, and because he will always be fidgeting with his cuffs – but at least there’s enough room in his jacket for a gun and a few other things.

He can still smell lilies on his hands, overlaid by the ghost-scents of gun oil, and of blood.

Charles frowns ruefully at the beginnings of sunburn on his nose, and then he shoulders his bug-out bag and heads downstairs to the front desk.

 _“Bon dia,”_ the man says. “You are the man in Room 42?”

Charles blinks, and checks his poker face, and says, carefully, “Yes, that’s me.”

“Package for you.” And he is offered a small white box – something that ought to have come from a flower shop. Inside is a single perfect rose, pale cream with a tawny yellow blush. Every petal is tipped in dark red: a beautiful and ominous gift. The stem has been cut short and wrapped with a black ribbon.

“Thanks,” Charles says, image of careless, harried cheer. “And I’m checking out, got to catch my flight. I’m afraid I overslept.”

“That is common here in Barcelona, for people who come here on holiday,” the man at the front desk says. “Thank you for staying with us.”

“Cheers.” Charles goes calmly through the motions and even makes a show of double-checking his bill – but the instant he’s out on the street he hits his scrambler and his smartphone and dials as rapidly as he can. To the curt greeting he snaps, “Have you received any flowers?”

“I have,” Lehnsherr replies. “The rose is still in its box. I haven’t touched it.”

“Don’t,” Charles says – but he’s beginning to calm down. “I’m on my way to Port Vell.”

There’s a sailing yacht waiting for him when he arrives at the moorings, and he nods briefly to the man at the wheel as he steps onto the deck. “I’m afraid I’m not actually dressed for this,” Charles murmurs when he looks down at the pristine planking. “I wasn’t expecting to be on a boat.”

“We won’t be here for long,” Lehnsherr says. 

Charles carefully picks up the small wooden box sitting on one of the consoles. The initials _JL_ are engraved into one side, and that is all – nothing else is left of a man named Jason Lee. 

“We’re here,” Lehnsherr says after a while, and Charles, still carrying the box with Agent Lee’s ashes, joins him at the bow. They are drifting slightly back in the direction of Barcelona, in a quiet spot with the barest hint of a sea breeze. The water below them is a dark, calm blue. 

Wordlessly Charles passes the box to Lehnsherr, who closes his eyes and bows his head, a stark figure in his black suit and white shirt. His lips move silently for a few minutes, before he takes a deep breath and looks at Charles. “Would you like to say a few words, Quartermaster?”

Charles bites his lip, and nods. “Only this: may he find peace and repose wherever he might be. As to the cause of his untimely death and all the rest of it, I believe that’s rather up to the two of us.”

“Yes. Rest well, Jason Lee,” Lehnsherr says, and immediately after he lets go of the box. It lands in the water with a quiet splash, and almost instantly sinks out of sight.

“We are going to have to talk about those roses,” Charles says while they’re on their way back to Barcelona.

“Yes,” Lehnsherr says again. “I saw you react when Frost first talked about them at _La Pedrera_. I think it’s time you told me the whole story.”

“Not all of it, not on your life,” Charles says, but he’s not angry; he understands that it has to do with the case, and that 008 actually does know how to conduct certain investigations. “Some of it is still sealed, secret enough that even I can’t get into those files. I mean, I can hack into them, but why would I? I would rather not remember those things, were it up to me.”

“In this case,” Lehnsherr begins.

“Yes, yes, I’m aware of that, let’s not waste any more time. In this case, what I can tell you, what is relevant, is that this was how I got permanently seconded to Q Branch. I worked together with 007 to trace a sniper rifle that was used to carry out a series of assassinations, much like the one that was used to go after our Agent Lee. The targets were intelligence people, middle ranks, people who had information and who had some limited influence. Bond and I chased separate leads across Europe, and I stumbled upon the shooter, and greenhouses full of beautiful roses.” It’s not that cold, but Charles has to put his hands in his pockets and fight off the imminent shivers. “I stole the rifle, in the end.”

“You did what?”

“I stole the rifle and one of its magazines. Took the lot apart, sent everything back home clearly labeled and identified, added a few comments about the bullets. The shooter was using actual bullets then, full metal jacket hollowpoints. And then I went back to work while still recovering from a gunshot wound in my shoulder. MacTaggert met me at the doors and guided me down to Q Branch, where I’d never even _been_.” When Lehnsherr glances at him for the second time Charles gives him a smirk that is only mostly self-mocking. “You don’t have to believe me. Ask her if you like. Ask _Bond_ ; I’m sure he’ll be happy to give you an objective account.”

“No need. I am still under the impression that you’re a dangerous man to cross, Quartermaster,” Lehnsherr says mildly as he leads the way to the parking lot, and thence to his car, a sleek navy blue Aston Martin Vanquish.

Charles smiles and tosses his luggage into the back, before plugging his phone into the car’s onboard computer. When it chirps an affirmative at him he switches it to GPS mode. “Back to _La Pedrera_ to pick up a package from Frost,” he says, “and then we’re going hunting. What did you manage to bring back from Coimbra, then?”

“Still have my gun, and the backup piece in the glove compartment,” Lehnsherr says, dropping the car into gear with a few practiced motions. “And I also seem to have liberated a submachine gun or two.”

“It’ll have to be enough,” Charles says. “And how good are you at playing spotter?”

“On the ground or eyes in the sky?”

“Ground,” Charles says, and is grateful for the heavily tinted windows – all the same, he shucks his suit jacket and spreads it over his lap before reaching for the parts of his sidearm, concealed in two compartments of his bag. It takes him just a few seconds to put the gun together under cover, the operation nearly second nature to him by now.

“Just tell me if you intend to use me as bait; twenty questions is tedious,” Lehnsherr says, but he actually looks amused, if the steely glint in his eyes is anything to go by. “Besides, I’m perfectly willing.”

Charles very nearly laughs, even given the seriousness of the situation, and the fact that he’s actually steering both of them into the very real possibility of a firefight. “At least you know right from the start that I’ve no intentions of getting you killed: it’d be too much paperwork to fill out if something happened to you.”

“And all of your intentions are perfectly noble, I know. Which means nothing to this shooter we’re pursuing.”

“That is just how it is, 008, and if it’s any consolation, I know exactly what it’s like to be a target.”

Lehnsherr nods and takes another corner at speed, and now they’re back on Passeig de Gràcia, with the undulating façade of _La Pedrera_ up ahead.

Frost is standing just outside the front doors; Charles watches her motion to someone just inside and then she comes down to meet them with a large black hard case and a smaller silver box. “I hope that piece will suffice, Mister Quentin,” she says. “It’s mine.”

“I’ll treat it well,” he says in response.

“There are also messages from Mum,” she continues. “To Mister Quentin: The gardens have been secured, and a man has been taken into custody, together with several computers you might be interested in.”

“Oh, I am definitely interested,” Charles says.

“For you, Mister Lehnsherr, she says that the usual requests hold.”

Lehnsherr smiles and tips an imaginary hat in her direction. “Give her my usual response.”

“I will. Anything else, gentlemen? I’ve secured the locations you outlined in your last message, Mister Quentin.”

“Then that’s it. Just listen for us. Thank you for all of your assistance,” Charles says.

She smiles, just the barest upward twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Good luck.”

When she’s gone, when they’re moving again, Charles catches Lehnsherr eyeing him carefully. “Locations? Plural?”

“On a technicality,” Charles says. “Would _you_ consider Sagrada Família as just the one location? Two completed façades and one more under construction; eight completed spires; a cloister and a crypt and all the other details besides.”

Perhaps it’s a good thing for Lehnsherr that they stop at an intersection, then, because he turns to look at  
Charles, and this time he’s actually smiling – not a smirk, not a sneer, nothing sarcastic about it. “Point taken, Mister Xavier.”

“I’m glad,” Charles says, marveling that his voice is so steady, “because we’re almost there, and we don’t have quite as much time for a briefing as I’d like.” He raises a hand when Lehnsherr opens his mouth to comment. “Shush, just drive. Listen to me,” and he opens the silver box to reveal two very small radios with detached earpieces. “And really, that’s all that we need to do at the outset. I’ll take one of these up into the towers and you take the other and run around at ground level or so. We’ll just have to hope that whoever we’re chasing doesn’t decide to lurk around the Glory façade, because it’s going to be very tricky getting around all that ongoing construction.”

“If we’re lucky and I can spot this person before he or she sees us, I can probably try to decoy them in your preferred direction. Which brings me to ask: _why_ are we doing this in such a public place? Why Sagrada Família?”

Charles bites his lip, this time hard enough for it to hurt. “Technically, 008, the information I’m about to give you is well above both of our pay grades. But because we’re here, and because there’s no one else: this shooter is the reason why several important tourist sites around Europe have been more tightly locked down. Euro Disney, the Uffizi Gallery, Jewel House at the Tower of London. Places that can be more tightly secured, that can be easily defended. Sagrada Família is many things, including the exception to that particular development.”

Understanding flashes in Lehnsherr’s eyes. “Ah. So this is one of the places where your shooter can carry out his or her campaign with impunity. I see; that makes things easier, after a fashion.”

“Don’t let’s hold back with each other now, 008,” Charles sighs. “You and I know that this is certainly not going to be anything resembling _easy_ or even _possible_. Too many hiding places. Too many people. Not enough time.”

“At least you still have the advantage over me, because you know something about this place. That’s a start,” Lehnsherr murmurs, turning into a parking lot and killing the engine with a quick, decisive gesture. “It’s enough that I can leave my life in your more than capable hands.”

“Why, 008, I had no idea you even trusted us,” Charles says as he climbs out of the car. “I do listen, you know. Q Branch easily receives twice as many complaints as all the others put together. The things we make are too complicated, or too simple, or too fallible, or they simply don’t function as they’re supposed to. And do you know where the loudest and most frequent complaints come from? From the double-0 agents – from Bond, and from _you_.”

“I have my reasons, and I will continue to have those reasons, even after I tell you what they are – which is what I’ll be doing as soon as we get out of this one, _alive_ ,” Lehnsherr says. There’s a quiet _click_ as he checks the safety on his handgun, which he quickly replaces in the holster riding just behind his hip where it is neatly concealed by his jacket.

“Your knife,” Charles says. “I know you’ve got one.”

“In my boot,” Lehnsherr says.

There’s a pause, and Charles tells himself he is _not_ admiring the way the sunlight falls golden across the other man’s shoulders, over the exposed wrists – instead, he moves over to the boot of the Vanquish and sneaks a quick look inside the black case. He almost wants to whistle, and very nearly calls Frost to be mockingly petulant about the fact that her sniper rifle is very nearly a match for his own. When he’s sure that everything about the rifle is in order, he relocks the case and shakes out his fingers, tries to rub some warmth into them – there goes his nervous energy again – and when he looks up, Lehnsherr is very nearly staring at him. 

It’s happened before. One of them has always been looking at the other, whether it be Charles watching 008 leave Q Branch, or 008 going to Q Branch to complain about guns and materiel in person – but it’s never been as obvious as this. 

And suddenly it hits Charles with the silent terrifying impact of a lightning strike: it’s _always_ been like this between them. For all the baiting and the never-ending snark and their pact of mutual disrespect, Lehnsherr – Erik – has never been anything like a mere trigger to be pulled. He’s always been more than that.

He’s a man with a weapon, who would still have that weapon were he caged or backed into a corner or dangling over an abyss: a man armed with his wits and with his willingness to call for help, which is to say _nothing_ of his willingness to _be_ the help.

And Charles knows how to work with that kind of willingness, because that’s what it’s like for him in Q Branch, even with the mockery, even with the restrictions, even with the inevitable losses.

“Do you really trust me, 008,” he says.

“Yes, Q,” Lehnsherr says.

Charles smiles, cold and brief and sharp, and reaches out for Erik’s arm, gets a good steady grip on him. 

Erik’s smirk is an exact mirror of his.

///

Up and out, dodging past construction workers and custodial staff and the occasional stray tourist. Several flights of stairs. Charles is more than glad that he still runs the equivalent of ten kilometers every weekday morning, and fifteen every Saturday and Sunday; he’s barely winded by the time he gets up to the spires. There’s plenty of shade looming over him, but the way this place works he might still get the last rays of the sun right in his face, not to mention the strange weight that seems to haunt these upper levels of Sagrada Família: a silence that presses in and presses down, that forces him to fight for every breath.

At least the view from up here is perfectly clear and perfectly spectacular.

“Well, one part of your plan is going well,” Erik says dryly in his ear. “Every rose I’ve seen so far is red.”

“That’s what happens when you come here in the spring,” Charles murmurs, and he shifts his elbows so he’s not lying directly on his nerves. 

“For Saint George? Hmm. I would rather receive a book, myself.”

“I’ll make a note of that for next year.” Charles peers carefully through the scope on his sniper rifle. Erik is nowhere in sight, but after fielding a question about a pelican carved into the stone of the portico, Charles knows that he’s in the vicinity of the Nativity façade. “Have you seen the turtle and the tortoise yet?”

“Yes,” is the amused reply. “It’s easy to see why they’re popular.” 

“They were the first things I took photos of when I arrived.”

“You’ll show me those photos later.” There’s a pause and the sounds of a brief scuffle, and Erik clears his throat and murmurs _“De nada”_ to someone.

Charles waits in silence for one minute, and then for two, before he peers back down the scope. “Status?”

“Saw something familiar. Something mostly white,” Erik says, now sounding tense. “I’m on the move now. Going to try to get her attention.”

 _“Be careful,”_ Charles growls, and he goes back to scanning the area below the Passion façade. The crowds are much thinner here, and they move quickly and fearfully whether they’re heading toward the church or away from it – which makes it easy to spot Erik, and then the woman he’s tailing.

Charles very nearly jerks back when he recognizes _her_ ; the last time he’d seen her, she’d been shooting at him, her patrician features half-covered in blood and the whole contorted with hatred. He remembers flaming red hair in a wild dirt-streaked halo around her face.

The woman Erik is chasing is blonde, and the scar is clearly visible where it cuts across her right cheek, and she is wearing a white rose in her lapel: white petals, tipped with faint red lines. Long sleeves, leather gloves, a sure and confident step – and there, there, Charles can see it only because he’s been watching her carefully – gun in a shoulder holster, something with a suppressor.

“She’s carrying, isn’t she,” Erik snaps in his ear. “Can you see what she has?”

“She is,” Charles confirms. “Handgun with a suppressor.”

“That makes my life easier – wait, what?”

“Oh god,” Charles breathes.

The woman has stopped right in her tracks, face upturned to the setting sun – and when she opens her eyes and smiles, she is very nearly looking directly at Charles. Her lips are moving.

_Shoot me and your companion dies. There is a second sniper._

“Fuck!” Erik’s voice rings in his ear, weighted with shock and tension. “It’s _you_. She’s looking at you, isn’t she? Is she sending you a message? _Talk to me, Charles._ ”

The woman’s smile: sweet and malicious. _Shoot me and your companion dies. There is a second sniper._

“Charles,” Erik very nearly growls.

“The message is for me. There is a second sniper, and that one has _you_ in his or her sights.”

“I don’t care I – ”

“Listen very carefully to me, Erik,” Charles whispers, never taking his eyes off the woman as she repeats her message again. “I am going to try everything in my power to get you out of this one alive.”

“I am _expendable_ , you idiot, there will always be other double-0 agents....”

“But none of them will be **you**. Now _hush_. Follow my directions to the letter.”

There is a very long pause, one that leaves Charles shaking with anger and anticipation, enough that he has to take his hands slightly off the trigger so he doesn’t jostle the rifle too much. “Erik. Acknowledge.”

“Charles. _God._ All right, what do you need me to do?”

Charles smiles, cold and furious all at once. “Grab the woman.”

“We’re going for the direct approach? With pleasure.”

From his perch Charles watches Erik stride into his line of sight. There is no hesitation in Erik’s movements, just speed and stealth – and he’s breathtaking to watch as he closes in on the woman and fends off her defensive movements. 

Tourists scatter out of the way as Erik and the woman scuffle right in the open space below the Passion façade – and then the match is decisively terminated when Erik succeeds in putting the woman into a hammerlock that forces her right up onto her toes. The smile on her face is gone, replaced by a rictus that Charles is more than familiar with.

“Got her,” Erik says.

“Can you free one of your hands?” Charles says.

“Easily.”

“Give her your earpiece, then hold your radio near her mouth.”

The woman fights even then, but Erik holds her firmly, and then mutters, “She’s live,” before there’s another _click_.

Charles takes a deep breath. “Hello, Yelena.”

The voice that replies is hoarse with anger. “I will not ask how you found us, as you will not ask how we found you.”

“Someone else will ask you those questions, not me,” Charles says, trying to keep his voice pleasant. “Now. I was wondering whether you took our Agent Lee out yourself, or did you have your, ah, _companion_ pull the trigger on him?”

“I regretted his death,” she says. “But it was necessary. It was an essential step in a process.”

“You’re going to have to tell me about this particular process of yours. I remember taking out important parts of it the first time we met. I took floor plans from you, and a particularly well-made gun.”

She hisses, “A minor setback.”

“I’m sure.” Charles takes a deep breath, and takes his eye off the scope; he looks out at Barcelona as it sinks slowly into the bright spring dusk. “Where is your shooter, please?”

“Are you going to kill him?” Yelena sounds both irritated and resigned.

“That would be quite a waste, wouldn’t it? No, I just want to move you and _my_ companion out of his sights. And believe me, this is the best possible outcome you could wish for.”

“Death is an acceptable outcome.”

Charles can _hear_ his voice growing cold as he whispers, “Not when I can still terminate this process of yours and leave it unfinished – and then where would you be? Surely that’s not what you wanted.”

It seems to have an effect on the woman, because when Charles peers back down through the scope she’s gone limp in Erik’s grasp. 

As Yelena pulls another radio out from her pockets Erik gets back on the communications relay, and his voice is a welcome sound indeed in Charles’s ear: “You have an interesting way of conducting negotiations.”

“It’s only a negotiation if each side gets something out of it, a concession or a compromise or whatever – and I assure you, I was not negotiating.”

“I can believe it. Where to?”

Charles sighs as quietly as he can. “I’m staying here until you’ve been picked up – I don’t trust Yelena even if I _can_ throw her.”

“Sounds like you tried. Throwing, I mean.”

“I’ll tell you that story, but not here. You might have to buy me a drink.”

Erik sounds like he’s smiling. “Believe me, I’m buying you all the drinks you want, as long as we get out of here.”

Charles fumbles for his scrambler and smartphone; he bypasses the missed call and the unread messages and hits the newest speed-dial. _“Necessito la teva ajuda,”_ he murmurs.

There’s a soft noise, and then Frost replies, “...Quentin?”

“Got it in one,” Charles says. “I think you need to send your people over to Sagrada Família. They’ll have to be people you trust. I’m delivering someone to you and she needs to be watched exceptionally carefully.”

“Who’s got her right now?”

“I’m looking at her,” Charles says, and blinks through the scope, “and 008 is still all but sitting on her.”

“Got a team on the move,” she says. “And your Catalan accent is very nearly acceptable.”

“Thank you, I do try.”

///

It’s long past sunset by the time Charles manages to make it back down to the ground from the upper reaches of Sagrada Família, back out into the open air from the looming shadows of the Passion façade. He’s practically staggering with the adrenaline crash as he weaves past the disapproving looks of a clump of Japanese tourists, and moves clumsily to avoid a man in a black suit – but when his arms are caught up in a strong, steady grip, his instincts almost take over and he half-drops into a defensive crouch before he hears the voice calling his name – well, it’s _a_ name, but it’s not his real name.

“Quentin,” Erik says.

“I’m not even a fan of that name,” Charles says. “Someone out there really, really hates me. Keep calling me that. Want it all to stop. Well, want _that_ to stop.”

“It’s the only name we can all remember on short notice,” is Erik’s half-amused and mostly kind answer.

“Whatever.” Charles huffs out an exhausted breath. “The woman?”

“I was right there watching when our people secured her, and I called in to make sure the local delivery went well.”

“Now all we have to worry about is the _international_ delivery. And I am most emphatically not the man for that particular job.”

Erik does laugh, then. “I can answer that, at the very least; I’m actually under orders to escort you back.”

“Oh god no,” Charles groans. “I know my holiday was cut short, but that’s – that’s too much. Can I say no to going home? I’m not really interested in leaving yet. Haven’t even been able to eat any _crema catalana_.” He lets Erik pour him into the passenger seat of the Vanquish, and buckles his seat belt with shaking hands.

“Who said we were leaving _now_?”

Charles turns to the side and eyes the long slope of Erik’s shoulders, the sharp lines of his profile. “We’re not.”

“No, we most definitely are not.” Erik darts a glance in his direction. “You’re in no condition to travel or speak or do anything else. And even if you could travel, you wouldn’t be able to enjoy the trip right now, what with night falling fast. I’m doing this the _right_ way, and that means I start by putting you to bed.”

“You just said I was in no condition for anything, 008.” 

There’s no response to that until they pull up at another hotel, something with a grand red carpet out front and what looks like an army of valets and staff. Charles blinks blearily out his window. “You’re not actually serious?”

Erik tilts his head at Charles’s slumped position and rolls his eyes, looking irrepressibly fond. “ _Tired_ is a good look on you.”

“I’ve got better.”

“Believe me, I’m looking forward to whatever else you’ve got,” Erik says, and then he climbs out of the car and snaps his fingers at someone, and before Charles knows it he’s being gently escorted into the lobby, into an elevator, and through a door – and then he’s face down in pillows and quilts and warmth and he just manages to kick off his shoes and take off his rumpled suit jacket before he’s out cold.

Someone murmurs, “Good night, Charles.”

///

He wakes up to open windows and a room full of sunlight and sea breezes.

Charles takes in the room with a swift, assessing glance: he can see his shoes and his suit jacket and the case with the sniper rifle, which means only one thing: he’s gone and slept still mostly clothed and he’s going to have to pay the price for it. He can already feel the bruises forming: the ones on his thighs from his smartphone and his scrambler and his keys, and the bigger one on his hip from his sidearm. 

He can’t remember the last time he’d been so tired he couldn’t even undress properly; he must have done it at some point, because this all feels familiar – well, all of this, he amends, except for the fact that he’s still very obviously right on the shore of the Mediterranean. Which means he’s still in Barcelona, which apparently means he’s technically still on holiday?

After he splashes water on his face and brushes his teeth, he feels marginally better, and he checks his smartphone for new messages. The one that remains, after he clears out Raven’s usual corny jokes and a couple of updates from both _La Pedrera_ and Q Branch itself back in London, is the message from an unknown number.

_I’m across the hall from you – but before you knock, look in the closet. I asked your second for your measurements. - 8_

“Measurements,” Charles says, and eyes the closet before yanking the door open.

Bug-out bag, check. The cardigan that he wore to the flower show, check. The ratty anorak he packed just in case there was some kind of freakish downpour around Heathrow, check.

He recognizes everything in here except for the obviously new suit bag, and he hesitates for just a moment before he pulls it open, as greedily as a child opening presents on Christmas morning.

Inside is a beautifully tailored lightweight cream-and-black suit.

Charles flees back into the bathroom, hurries through a quick scrub and shower, and then very carefully starts getting dressed. When he buttons up the crisp shirt he immediately notices that it’s a little tight around the shoulders, and that it has a rather taller collar than he’s used to wearing, though he supposes the black insert that frames his throat does make amends for the unusual style. The jacket is just a little too long for him, which is exactly how he likes it, and the trousers perfectly conceal everything he’s carrying in the pockets.

He grins at himself in the mirror and runs his hand through his still damp hair, and then he steps across the corridor and knocks: four times, pause, two.

“Give me a moment.” Erik pulls the door open and Charles feels the grin fall off his face, feels the hot flush rising and curses, a little too late, when he realizes that the white suit is only going to make his feelings even more obvious.

Still, Charles is Charles and is also the man known as Q, so he tilts his head and says, “Really, 008, dressing down or not you’ve still got to follow some form of sartorial protocol, don’t you?”

Erik smirks at him, dark purple shirt and black suit trousers and _bare feet_ and all, and gives him a fairly slow and thorough once-over.

Charles very studiously neither straightens nor slouches under that hot, considering regard.

“You clean up very well, _Mister Xavier_ , though of course I should really stop being surprised by that,” Erik drawls, and then he steps aside and beckons Charles in. “Breakfast?”

“Starving,” Charles says, suddenly remembering that he hasn’t really eaten anything since – well. Since yesterday morning. He did tend to survive on adrenaline and a little bit of patience on long stake-outs and when he was playing sniper – though in his experience, those things generally did not actually occur exactly at the same time.

“You would have made one hell of a soldier,” Erik says once they’re settled in at the table on the balcony – a tight squeeze considering the rest of the room, so much so that they have to sit practically next to each other. There is a bread basket, a small bowl of fruit, a large platter of cold cuts and cheese, and pots of coffee and tea and what smells like cinnamon-spiked hot chocolate. “How long were we out there yesterday? At least I could play tourist and eat and drink things while looking out at the crowds. You were stuck without any supplies, weren’t you? How’d you do it?”

Charles shrugs, and pours the coffee and the chocolate, and he takes a long, careful sip from his cup afterwards, breathing deeply of the sweet steam. “I’ve been through worse.”

“I can believe it,” Erik says. 

“What do you believe in?” Charles asks after a while.

“Hands, feet, gun, knife,” Erik says, eyes on the distant horizon. “The things that I’ve learned, and the things that I’ve been taught. I believe in M especially because she trusts me to do my work and do it well, and then return for another assignment.”

Charles smiles and keeps looking down at his hands, at the orange segment he’s holding. “‘Her usual requests’, I take it.”

“Yes. There are two. _Trust your instincts. Come back alive._ ” 

“I would suppose those are very good words to live by, no matter what job one happened to have.”

Erik shrugs. “They work for me. Especially the one about instincts.”

Here it is, Charles thinks, and he braces his feet, and he eats his fruit, and seizes the moment with both hands. “And what are your instincts telling you right now?”

Erik smirks, then seems to think better of it, because the expression softens into a smile – and it’s very nearly the smile from last night, the _man_ from last night. “Why don’t I show you, instead of telling you.”

Charles inhales and exhales, rapidly, jerkily, and then he almost forgets to stop breathing and _thinking_ when Erik leans over and kisses him.

 _“Oh christ,”_ someone says, and he doesn’t know that it’s him, not until he pulls away from the second kiss to find out that he’s dragged Erik nearly into his lap. Erik: who is flushed and grinning, who is clinging to his shoulders, who looks like he’s been lit up with wild and incendiary happiness. “Erik,” Charles says, and kisses him again.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time...Charles,” Erik says, when they have to break apart again.

That’s the last straw, that’s what makes Charles nearly fly out of the chair – he bolts to his feet and grabs Erik’s wrist, none too gentle, and he leads Erik to the bed with its still-creased sheets and turns back to him, nearly frantic with need and indecision. “God, I have no idea what to do now, except that you have to be here and I have to be here and it’s been a long time and I – oh god,” he whispers as he nips at the corner of Erik’s mouth, “I want everything.”

“Instincts, Charles,” Erik says.

“...I do like it when you say my name.”

The smile he gets for that can only be described as _predatory_. “Then I’ll keep saying it...Charles.”

“You’re going to kill me,” Charles says, when Erik gently pushes him to sit near the pillows, and when Erik starts to undo the buttons on his shirt at a slow and careful pace. 

“I’m not interested in you dying, Charles,” Erik says with a fond smile and a wicked glint in his eyes. “I’d much prefer it if you stayed alive. Not just today, not just tomorrow – but for a long time, too, because there are just too many things I can do and you can do and we can do to each other.”

Charles swallows all of the other possible responses and settles for a grin and “Sounds like a plan” – at which point he grabs Erik’s shoulders and rolls him down into the sheets. “Hello,” Charles says, and leans down to kiss the tip of Erik’s nose. “Is this all right with you?”

“Fuck’s sake, _stop asking for permission_ ,” Erik half-growls and half-laughs, and as if to prove his point he bucks upward, once, twice, and he’s hot and hard and perfect and he’s still _grinning_.

Charles swears and fumbles them both out of their clothes – Erik helps, a little – and every time Erik tries to flip their positions Charles holds him down, enough that Erik groans more and more fervently – but that’s what he likes, and apparently Erik must like it too because he keeps fighting Charles.

Charles lets him, and keeps him pinned and keeps on kissing him, everywhere Charles can reach: the blotchy flush spreading over his throat, the sensitive spot behind his ear, the inside of his wrist, the arch of his eyebrow. He moves down, and bites a series of red marks into and around the scars crisscrossing Erik’s torso; he lingers over the line of burn scars marching over the floating rib.

Erik shudders beneath him, swears a blue streak and pleads with him, runs his hands up and down Charles’s torso and sides.

“Make it worth my while,” Charles teases after another series of kisses, dirty, open-mouthed.

“You have no idea,” Erik says, bright and fervent. “Let me up, Charles.”

Charles laughs – and does.

Erik kisses him, powerful contrast between being needy and being gentle: one of his hands is cupped around the back of Charles’s head, and the other is wrapped lightly around Charles’s throat – and it’s as if Erik is burning, and that only inflames Charles more. 

When Erik lets him breathe Charles nearly rears up after him, which gets him a smile. “No, Charles, I want to do this for you. Let me, all right? Not to say that I’m not interested in what you can do.”

“We’ll have time for that,” Charles very nearly growls.

“That’s a promise. Now,” and Erik smirks, and pushes him back into the sheets.

Whatever it is Charles is expecting, it’s not _this_ : it’s not Erik’s hand, warm and steady on his hipbone. It’s not Erik’s fingertips tapping out a maddening rhythm against his skin, steadily heading down. 

And he’s certainly not expecting Erik’s mouth on him: hot insistent suction combined with long slow strokes and swipes. He grits his teeth and arches into that rhythm, helpless and wanting, and then he can feel himself almost hitting the back of Erik’s throat and he just about _screams_ Erik’s name.

Just as Charles is teetering on the edge of orgasm, Erik pulls off with an obscene _pop_ and slithers back up to kiss him.

And then Erik whispers something against his mouth – and Charles cries out and falls, and Erik follows him over the edge.

“You’re not serious?” Charles asks, after, shaking with laughter and the aftershocks. “There’s _always_ someone in Q Branch. I’ve considered telling people to just write the place down as their mailing address and be done with it.”

“Some of us already do that, you know,” Erik drawls, and keeps carding his fingers through Charles’s sweat-soaked hair.

“I figured as much. But really. I do have my own place.”

Erik grins and leans in to whisper, right in Charles’s ear: “Okay, okay, you can take _me_ on your desk if that’s what you want.”

“...Dear god, you are absolutely evil,” Charles mutters, and he considers hiding his blush in Erik’s shoulder, briefly, before looking him in the eyes instead. “Damn it. _Yes._ ”

///

The last place Charles expects to take a call is within the departures area of Barcelona El Prat Airport – but he has to pick up, and he sighs and he does; mentally he braces himself and physically he puts his feet flat on the floor.

And apparently one of the nice things about dating a double-0 agent is that they know how to pick up on physical cues – so he can _feel_ Erik getting ready for trouble, tense where they’re touching from shoulders to hips.

“Quarter,” Charles says.

“Trouble,” MacTaggert says.

Charles sighs. “Is there any other kind?”

“If it makes you feel better,” she says, calm and controlled and brisk all at once, “it’s a big one, and your particular talents will be more than welcome.”

“Which ones?” Erik mouths. Of course he’s listening in, but that’s only because Charles is letting him.

Charles makes a face in his direction; out of the corner of his eye he sees Erik hold up his hands, but he doesn’t back off – nor would Charles want him to.

MacTaggert is still explaining: “...I’m supposed to be cleared for all of this but honestly, Quartermaster, this all looks like gobbledygook of the worst sort to me – what, er, ma’am – ”

A familiar voice cuts in to the call. “Give me that. We don’t have much time. I’ve got CIA shrieking for backup and we still have to make sure they’re fed and _guarded_ downstairs. See to them, please. Talk to Miss Darkholme.”

“Yes, ma’am,” MacTaggert says, and then there’s a quick soft click.

“Hello?” Charles says.

“Quartermaster,” M says. “And, I assume, 008?”

“He’s here with me, yes,” Charles says, and answers Erik’s questioning expression with one that says _hell if I know_.

“Good. He’s to stay with you at all times; there’s a cyberwar in the offing, and you’re either going to be a target or one of the people on the front lines. I want you here, and I want you at work, and I want 008 watching your back at all times. Is that clear.”

“You want me to tell him all that, Mum?”

“Please do,” she says, and then there’s another click and the dial tone.

Charles raises an eyebrow at Erik. “You heard her.”

“I did,” Erik says, and it seems impossible but he actually manages to step in closer; now he’s right in Charles’s personal space, close enough that he’s very nearly leaning on Charles. “Though I’m not actually telling her that I’m taking this particular assignment very seriously, and very _personally_.”

So Charles grins and leans back against him instead, and puts his hands in the pockets of his anorak, and looks up at the timetable, waiting for the information on their return flight to flash up.

Erik sneaks a hand into his pocket. His hand is large and rough and warm around Charles’s.

**_fin_ **  


**Author's Note:**

> > Lots of thanks to my alpha reader R, who encouraged me and cheered me on when I was initially freaking out over the identity of my recipient; and to my beta reader A, who has as always been patient and eagle-eyed and thorough.  
> > And on that note, THANK YOU to [kaydeefalls](http://kaydeefalls.livejournal.com) for the prompt that basically said "Write a fusion!AU, any fusion!AU - [s]eriously, any fusion-style crossover would be awesome. I don't even care if I'm familiar with the other fandom, I will love it regardless." I had a blast writing this and I hope you like it!  
> > I first got the idea of M as Margaret "Peggy" Carter from the one and only [sirona](http://sirona-gs.tumblr.com), who is an absolute star because not only did she let me talk excitedly and flailingly at her when I was plotting this out, but she also let me borrow her truly awesome character. Thank you, thank you, there aren't enough words to express my thanks for all the encouragement.  
> > Plot points and developments were borrowed from the James Bond novel _Never Send Flowers_ , written by John Gardner - in particular, the unusual white-and-red rose that kicks off the book's story.  
> > The type of lily that Charles grows is called テッポウユリ (teppouyuri), and it is often known as the Easter lily or the November lily. The variety mentioned in the fic is sometimes called the Bermuda lily. Photos [here](http://www.cambridge2000.com/gallery/images/P61712020.jpg) and [here](http://farm2.staticflickr.com/1143/572583177_6d7adb862e_z.jpg?zz=1).  
> > [Casa Milà](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Casa_Mil%C3%A0), also referred to in the fic as _La Pedrera_ , is one of the seven properties included in the UNESCO World Heritage Site "Works of Antoni Gaudí". At present the building is a cultural site housing exhibition spaces, an art gallery, and a café. Its use as an SIS outpost in this story is entirely fictional.  
> > Part of the fic is set in and around [Basílica i Temple Expiatori de la Sagrada Família](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sagrada_Fam%C3%ADlia), and mention is made of both the Nativity and Passion Façades. A high-quality photograph of the latter can be found [here](http://iwilcope.files.wordpress.com/2010/01/img_30211.jpg).  
> > Charles and Erik both reference the Catalan celebration of St. George's Day, _La Diada de Sant Jordi_ , a holiday held on 23 April. During this celebration sweethearts, loved ones, and colleagues exchange gifts, and men and women historically exchanged roses and books.  
> > "Necessito la teva ajuda" - in Catalan, "I need help."


End file.
